


Adam Goes to College, Is Weird

by youreyestheyglow



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 09:46:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19104640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: Leaving The Barns is a process, but with Ronan's help, Adam accomplishes it. The problem is: Even at school, Adam's still a littleoff.





	Adam Goes to College, Is Weird

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a full year ago, but never published it. Reread it today, realized it dovetails lightly with CDTH spoilers (I think? Didn't actually read them, to be fair, but Adam in College is def a thing), and decided I should publish this before CDTH actually comes out.

As school ended, the acceptance letters came rolling in, and with them, financial aid packages. Each one untied a knot in his stomach. Seven Ivy Leagues. Seven full rides. _Everything good comes in threes,_ Persephone said, but sevens are second best, and he’d gotten sevens in spades.

So he and Ronan drove up to Cabeswater II.

He didn’t understand it, how the forest could feel old when it was so new, but it did, and it was, and it called him _magician_ and resumed their bargain where they had left off, so he left off trying to understand it and just accepted it instead.

They sat in the chair-like roots of two of the oldest trees and unfurled a map. Adam marked Cabeswater on it. He marked the ley lines he knew. He marked the seven Ivy Leagues. And then, Ronan’s hand on his ankle, a piece of jet in his pocket, the sun on his face, he closed his eyes and gave himself up to the ley lines.

When he came back, he had drawn perfect lines through Harvard and Dartmouth.

“Isn’t Dartmouth somewhere cold?” Ronan asked. So Adam accepted Harvard.

The next day, they went on a road trip: just the two of them, the child psychopomp, and the dream raven, looking like child traffickers with a penchant for the dramatic. They followed the ley line, moving rocks, removing rocks, digging trenches. Adam flipped tarot cards and Ronan spoke to Cabeswater. Over and over and over again, the ley line clicked into place, like the offer of a scholarship fully earned, like an understanding of home.

At the end of it, they walked onto Harvard’s campus, visitors in a place neither of them belonged. They shrugged that off. Dreamer and magician, they would never properly belong anyplace they didn’t make themselves.

Here, it was harder to fix the ley line. How to move a memorial when it channels energy up and away? _Disconnect it from the corpse road,_ Cabeswater said. They glanced around. No one else was stupid enough to be out in the mid-summer heat, and they thrust sticks down and under, blocking the connection. The ley line ran smoothly once more. It should have had priestesses, caring for it, telling people not to put a memorial on it. Instead, it had Ronan and Adam, and they tried to be enough.

And then they went home.

 Three months later, they packed up the BMW and drove back to Harvard, minus the child and the raven. They unloaded the car in silence. Wordlessly, without worrying about the still-faceless roommate, they chose the left side of the room to be Adam’s: the bed on that side sat directly over the ley line. Adam made the bed: square corners, comforter centered, pillow fluffed. Ronan arranged the flowers on Adam’s desk: unnatural and undying and a shade of blue that never existed in nature, they had the additional perk of being in an unbreakable glass vase. Ronan slammed the desk drawers once or twice: he might have ditched his rage, but the man still loved a loud goddamn noise. And in the silence of the empty dorm, it was _loud_. They’d beaten even the earliest of early birds.

Ronan dragged the desk chair out, whirled it around with a screech, tossed a leg over it, and sat, forearms resting on the back, watching Adam. “Is it everything you dreamed?”

“More importantly, is it anything _you_ dreamed?”

“Great question, Parrish. I dreamed up fewer concrete walls. Got any _posters_?”

“Blue made me some. Trees.”

“Repurposed canvas?”

“Very.”

 “Fuck, I should’ve dreamed you up some vines, you could’ve lived in a rainforest if I’d planned better.”

Adam looked at Ronan.

Ronan looked at Adam.

 _I’ll be back_ , Adam didn’t bother saying.

 _I know_ , Ronan didn’t bother answering.

No sense in saying the obvious, even if it wasn’t always.

“Opal put at least three sticks in your bag. And an ice cream wrapper.”

“Oh.”

“I think she was worried you’d get hungry.”

“I… tell her I said thank you.”

“I won’t, she’ll think you actually _eat_ them.”

“She won’t.”

“I know.”

The obvious. It didn’t need to be said. But they’d said it. And if they were breaking that rule anyway, Adam didn’t see the harm in breaking it again. “I’m coming back.”

“I know.”

Ronan stood. Adam reached out to him. Ronan took his hand, put it to his mouth, straddled him, kissed his jaw, his lips, his forehead. Adam had been homesick before, when he’d moved out of his parents’ house; that had been fraught with guilt, victimhood, and the knowledge that he would never return. This homesickness was different: the home he wanted was his, guilt-free, and he’d be returning to it. He held that against his heart like a pillow, soft and comforting, and held Ronan like he’d never let go.

Ronan took a deep breath and stood. Adam could practically see the anger, rising in Ronan like a wave, the anger that was really just a whole horde of other emotions that Ronan Lynch was desperately trying to process. He picked his jacket up off the desk and left without saying goodbye.

And so Adam began his college career.

 

 

By Christmas, he realized he’d made a name for himself.

His roommate, Stan, was about as mystical as foot cream, but he was fully capable of recognizing _weird_ , and Adam Parrish was nothing if not _weird_. The semester was a hellish one for _weird_ : the ley line was all sorts of messed up, and Adam often found himself kneeling on his bed, tossing tarot cards at his pillow, staring directly into his desk lamp, an act in which Stan caught him no fewer than ten times. He repeatedly made the mistake of telling people what their future would hold: _don’t worry about that test,_ he’d say, _it’s on the stuff you already know_ ; or _you probably won’t get that job, but hey, their HR manager might pass your resume along to someone who wants you;_ and it would happen. It wasn’t that he could _see_ the future, per se; he would just be standing on the ley line, thinking about time, and the things he would say would be correct.

Stan – and Park, and Jessica, and Lena – had noticed, furthermore, what he barely saw himself: his feet unconsciously aligning themselves with the ley line, his body automatically relaxing when it rushed up into his bones. They mapped the line it made through campus. They mentioned it. He laughed it off. It became a slightly uncomfortable running joke. Adam found himself wondering: _what would Gansey do_? Doubtless he would have some way of making people forget the oddnesses of his general existence. He had wandered about for years looking for a king and people had thought it quite interesting. But Adam decided to be fair to himself: he didn’t have a voice that could wake the dead, so how could he hold himself to Ganseyen standards?

Stan was under the impression that Adam could only fall asleep with his eyes open. Every night, Adam would scry, directly into Cabeswater, where he would meet Ronan, and Opal, and Chainsaw. But whereas at the Barns he could fall out of his body anywhere, in the loud and slightly moldy-smelling dorm it took more effort: jet in his hands, the weight of a biology book on his feet, the harsh glare of the dorm light in his eyes. Stan would wave a hand in front of Adam’s face, whisper loudly about the fact that it was three in the morning and, actually, time to turn off the lights, and then turn them off, usually effectively ending Adam’s scrying session. Of course, in the sudden darkness, Stan didn’t see Adam close his eyes.

Gansey, Henry, and Blue stopped by to see him in November; they intercepted him on the way to the library, and he ditched a study session, for the first time in his life, to eat lunch with them. Later, sketching out the basics of their history for Park, it occurred to him that it might be strange that his girlfriend had ditched him for his best friend and that he was still best friends with both of them. This occurred to him because Park asked him if it was awkward, and because the answer was no. It occurred to him, too, later that night, that he had never mentioned Ronan to any of his friends. How could he? Ronan felt like a secret, like a crutch, like a best friend, like a second soul, like too much to discuss casually. And without talking about Ronan, most of his stories contained gaping holes, which he carefully spackled but never got around to painting.

Adam Parrish was strange.

And he felt it, too, on the train back to Harvard after Christmas break, carrying with him an odd wooden bowl that filled with water whenever he looked into it. _To save your eyes, asshole,_ Ronan had said when he handed it over. _Jesus God, Parrish, you can’t stare at lights forever without_ some _repercussions_.

Adam hadn’t had the chance to use it, yet, but just holding it made him feel grounded. He was fairly certain that his soul would never manage to wander too far, so long as he was using the bowl. 

Of course, that made things worse. Now, far from thinking Adam just fell asleep with his eyes open, Stan _knew_ that that wasn’t the case: Adam staring into a full bowl of water for an hour before bedtime, and then placing the bone-dry bowl on his desk without standing up, was _much_ weirder.

More than once, Adam contemplated _telling_ Stan: yes, there’s magic; there’s more to my story than I’ve told you; the world is bigger than you know. But – well, Stan already _knew_ that, a little bit. He knew Adam was _weird._ If he didn’t believe it, Adam saw no reason to prove it; if he did believe it, Adam saw less reason to prove it. Stan already knew what Adam did. The only things Adam could tell him were the things that weren’t his to tell.

So he kept his silence.

When roommate forms for the next year came along, Stan tentatively asked Adam to room with him next year, too; Adam gratefully accepted. Stan looked at the list of dorms, crossed half of them out, printed out maps of the dorms, and circled five rooms – “Ground floor,” he said, showing them to Adam, “and all along that weird line you walk.”

For that, Adam read the cards for Stan. “Tell them,” he said. “All at once. Over dessert. The moment will come. Things will be hard. And then things will be okay.”

Adam wondered, for a moment, where the words came from. What they meant. But after a moment of staring at Stan’s stricken face, he said, slowly, carefully, “Did I tell you – I’m bisexual?”

“Hi, bisexual,” Stan whispered. “I’m gay. The joke – well. I’m gay, anyway. Over dessert?”

Adam shrugged. “A promise, not a guarantee, but I don’t break my promises.”

And then the end of the year was upon them. Adam and Stan were packed up, beds barren, dressers and desks empty. Jess and Park and Lena sat with them, on the floor and on the edges of the bed, there for an extra day – their flights didn’t leave for another 24 hours.

Adam picked up his phone. “Room 151, Lynch. Code is 8552.”

“How’d you know what I was going to ask? You get creepier by the day.”

“And here I thought I peaked when I framed a man for child murder.”

“Better to say you’ve learned subtlety with age. I’ll be in in a second.”

Adam hung up.

“Did it even ring?” Jessica asked.

“You were joking about the child murder, right?” Park asked.

Adam laughed. “That was a joke, yeah.” It _was_. He’d been making a joke which had involved the true fact of his participation in the framing of a man for child murder.

Somehow, his friends failed to look reassured.

And then there was beeping at the door, and the door nearly flew off its hinges. There Ronan stood, tall and happy and angry and dangerous, Chainsaw on his shoulder, tattoo more alive than ever, and even though they’d been meeting every night in dreams the whole time he’d been away Adam was so, so happy –

Opal barreled past Ronan – “dumbfuck, that’s why you were supposed to stay _in the car_ ” – and leapt at Adam. Adam caught her and lifted her, and she bared her teeth at Ronan, defiance incarnate. He bared his teeth right back.

Opal struggled for a minute, and Adam set her down. Solemnly, she returned his watch, clasping it over his wrist. “You’re coming home now.”

“Yes. For the summer.”

She hissed at him. Her emotions, too, had a tendency to manifest as anger.

Adam grinned at Ronan.

Ronan grinned at Adam.

Ronan took Adam’s hand and pressed it to his mouth. “Let’s go, Parrish, Spots birthed another calf, and I’ve got Maura looking after it.”

Adam hoisted his bedding, his bag of books, his bag of clothes; Ronan took the trashcan, the lamp, the cleaning supplies, the shower supplies. Opal lifted the vase, eying the flowers up, before Ronan swiped it out of her hands.

“See you guys next year,” Adam said. “Get home safe!”

The four of them raised hands in a silent goodbye, and Adam sighed. He would have explaining to do, next year.

Well, but maybe he’d be able to get Ronan to actually come visit him, and Ronan could meet his friends.

Or maybe that would be a disaster.

Opal shut the door behind him and loped out the front door ahead of him. She was buckled into the backseat before Adam managed to get half his stuff into the trunk. Ronan piled on what was left, and then used his freed hands to grab Adam’s face and kiss him, and, yes, Adam was going home, home to the Barns and Opal and Chainsaw, home to Henrietta, home to the cattle and the fields and Cabeswater, home to Ronan Lynch, Ronan Lynch, Ronan Lynch. He never thought he’d be this happy – not, at least, before he’d graduated, before he’d gotten a job, before he’d hit his thirties and his stride. But. He squeezed Ronan’s hand.

“Adam!”

He turned.

Stan jogged towards them. “Sorry, that was rude in there, just – ah – hi, I’m Stan Leibowitz, ah,” he held out a hand for Ronan to shake, but dropped it before Ronan made it awkward. “I, uh –”

“This is Ronan Lynch. My boyfriend.”

Ronan grinned, a shark in bloody waters, and Stan smiled unhappily back.

“I just wanted to say – drive safe, let me know when you get home, you know? It’s a long drive, I know.”

“Will do, Stan. Thanks.”

“I – yeah. I – ah – Ronan, were you the one – did you give him that wooden bowl?”

“Yeah,” the shark answered, ready to feast.

“I just – good idea. Probably saved his eyes. Anyway. See you next year, Adam.”

“See you next year, Stan.”

The shark, defanged, looked at Adam.

The other shark, fangs intact, looked at Ronan.

They shrugged, separated, and climbed into the car.

Ronan put one hand on the wheel and the other on the stick shift. Adam put one hand to the handle on the ceiling and the other on Ronan’s. And then they were off, and Adam stopped being _weird_ , and started being _loved_.

He breathed more easily that way.


End file.
